Dear Farm Journal,
The disorientation of Keewaydin windstorms is nothing short of bewildering. After hours of invisible bashing, the senses are vanquished; eyes, blown dry yet streaking tears, ears, deafened (equilibrium, offset), skin, shucked raw. The unrelenting gales have a way of wearing you down over time, thwarting every move you make until you’re mentally and emotionally shattered, a husk of your former self. Rufus says if he was a rich man, he’d have a place in the valley for days like this. The farmstead structures creak and rattle mirroring our own inner tremors. The baffling gusts allowed Rufus to sneak up on an addled male pheasant floundering near the barn. He said, “I saw the whites of his eyes, and if he was wearing pants, he would’ve pooped em’”. If you don’t find a wisp of humor in the wind, it’ll blow you away.

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